


Put a little faith in me

by Sweaterknight



Category: Cowboy Bebop
Genre: Casual slutshaming, Getting Together, Intersex, M/M, Oral Sex, Relationship Discussions, Spike is naked a lot, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, blood mention, safe sex talk, transgender character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 02:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6935788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweaterknight/pseuds/Sweaterknight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike and Jet never see quite eye to eye, but they're pretty good at working around that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put a little faith in me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aiis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aiis/gifts).



> I've only seen up to Session 23 so far so forgive any story details that are fucked. Written and posted from my phone.
> 
> Edit: realized that the line about Spike's chest could imply that he's intersex as well as trans. Interpret that way if you wish.

Spike is naked on Jet’s couch.

Usually Jet would be having different feelings about this, but right now he’s sick with nausea at the sight of him digging a bullet from his thigh. It's close enough to his pelvis that it's going to make walking hard for him for a while. 

Spike hisses, flicking a bloody lump into his ashtray before exchanging it for his Marlboro. There's spools of bandages loose on the couch, and Spike takes them up with a grimace.

“Need a hand?” Jet says. Spike jumps- bad sign. The kid is never in a good mood if he can be caught off guard.

“Sure,” he says though, and pitches the wad at Jet. He misses. Jet stoops to get it and sits next to him on the couch, tugging his knee up so he has room to work at the wound.

He’s never been this close to Spike naked without a towel or something in the way. Despite the cavalier cowboy act, Spike seems to always have a shred of modesty left. Now his towel is under his ass, keeping bloodstains off the cushions, and he slumps with his knees open and lets Jet work while he huffs down his cigarette like he thinks the nicotine is a painkiller.

Jets eyes rove, okay? He’s an ex-detective. If he didn't poke his eyes in places they didn't belong, he'd have been shot long ago.

“So, uh-”

“Not now, Jet, Christ,” Spike snaps, ashing onto the floor when he can’t quite reach the ashtray without disturbing Jet’s steady hands.

“Right, none of my business,” Jet replies, abashed, and Spike seems to sulk over that answer for a long couple of minutes. Jet weaves the bandages around and around, back and forth to compress without cutting off circulation or range of motion. It's a bit unnerving, how good he's gotten at this since he picked up Spike.

“Fine, just spit it out already,” Spike finally says, sucking desperately on his filter. Jet suppresses a smile- Spike has many more tells than he's sure Spike assumes he has, and he wonders if sometimes he's the only one who gets to see them all.

“No scars here, besides the ones I already knew about,” Jet says, flicking Spike in the chest, and Spike’s eyes narrow in what he probably thinks is an intimidating way when he grunts.

“But you didn't want surgery there?” He asks, gesturing vaguely towards between Spike’s legs, and he wriggles his free knee around like he's thinking about closing his thighs, being shy.

“I don't take kindly to the idea of strangers cutting into my genitals while I'm asleep, really,” Spike drawls, and uses the dying ember on his cigarette to light a new one. Jet huffs a laugh.

“Can't say I'd like the sound of that either,” he says, and tugs the bandage a little to see if it's right. The muscle under his hand jumps, but when he glances at Spike, his eyes are cast off somewhere far into space, as far as Callisto, maybe.

Jet waits a second for him to come a little further back, then says, “Those hormone poppers?” And points to a little row of bumps that curves high between his other thigh and groin.

“Yeah, I get ‘em replaced every time we swing by Mars,” Spike says, and then his eyes light up, “Oh, that reminds me.”

He presses down hard on one of the bumps with his thumb. There's a small, audible cracking, and then he sees the bump start to deflate a little as it releases what he assumes is a dose of testosterone. A bruise blooms up as well, shallow compared to the others already present.

Jet tucks the ending of the bandage off. Spike lets his leg fall, not quite closing his knees. Not quite dissuading Jet from looking when his head falls back onto the couch and his long neck is on display, his face slack with content as he smokes with his eyes closed.

Jet’s always appreciated Spike's looks the way he appreciates the sight of a dog bred for a purpose. He's a man built for the life he lives, and Jet has always liked that about Spike. He looks like a fighter and a bounty hunter and a pilot and an arrogant young prick with too much weight on his shoulders for someone so young, and too smart and brave to be nearly an outlaw himself. 

That hasn't changed. If anything, this touch of strangeness fits in with everything else perfectly. Jet lets himself look selfishly for a moment, then clasps a hand on Spike's knee for both camaraderie and as a prop to lever himself up. He stretches, feels his back crack, and lights a cigarette of his own, inhaling the scent of the different brands mingling in the air. It's a smell he's come to think of as homey.

“I never slept with Vicious, if that's what you're wondering,” Spike says. His voice is soft, smooth as it always is, but when he looks down his eyes are heavy and hard under his soft lids and eyelashes.

“I wasn't,” Jet says firmly, and something clears in Spike's eyes.

“Oh,” he says. He looks oddly vulnerable in this light, coltish limbs spread loose across the couch and something naked but undecipherable on his face. Jet wonders if he feels light-headed from the blood loss.

“Hungry? I got some miso I've been looking forward to making,” Jet offers, and Spike nods wordlessly. Jet can feel his eyes on his skin long after he's left the room.

-

Spike has done the shopping this time, and Jet’s putting the groceries away when he pulls out a box of condoms.

Condoms are still in use only in sketchy areas, as far as Jet knows. Most space-faring adults have had vaccines against the common STDs, although in colonies the chances of getting those is a little dicier. And contraceptives are dirt cheap and in nearly every vending machine made in the past ten years. So far as Jet’s aware, condoms are used to prevent a mess, mostly. And more than that, expensive.

“Spike!” he yells, and Spike sticks his head out of the can, hair still wet from a shower and a ring of toothpaste around his mouth.

“What's up with these, huh?” he asks, and tosses them to him. Spike snatches them out of the air with one hand.

“They're mine,” he says, and ducks back into the can. Jet follows, blocking the door from closing by leaning against it. Spike gives him a thorny, annoyed look as he spits and rinses his mouth out.

“Plan on getting some tail?” he asks, grinning, and Spike, head under his towel as he finishes drying his hair, snorts.

“They're in case of an emergency,” he says, and when his face reemerges, he takes a breath, then grimaces and says, “I can technically still… Y’know.”

Jet almost says that he doesn't, but Spike raises his eyebrows significantly, and it sinks in like an anvil to the skull.

“Regular contraception?” he asks, and Spike makes a toothy face in the mirror at him.

“Most of the common ones are loaded with hormones. I don't need extra to throw me off balance. These are neater,” he says, and opens the box. They come in neat little spools, and Spike lets one unroll almost to the floor, snorting. Then he catches sight of Jet’s face, and whips him with the foil chain like it's a weapon.

A sudden dainty hand catches the next whip, and Faye neatly rips the chain in half. Then she blinks at Spike, her smirk curling at the corner of her mouth.

“Awfully ambitious of you, Spike. I'm fairly certain there aren't enough port town hussies willing to part their legs for you that you’ll ever use all of these, so I’ll just take some off your hands,” she says, and starts to amble off again.

“Hey! I’m pretty sure you're gonna need more than that, Faye! Aw, but I don't seem to have enough for your needs, guess you’ll need to do the supply shopping oh, say, next week?” Spike yells down the hallway at her, and she whirls again with a glare at the ready.

“What exactly are you trying to imply, huh? Just say what you mean, you ass! Or aren't you man enough to tell a lady what you think of her, huh?” she hisses, and he shrugs, smirking now that he's clearly got the upper hand. 

“Oh, I wouldn't go so far as to call you a lady, Faye. Maybe a lady of the night…” he drawls, the deliberate looseness of his shoulders calculated to piss her off. It works everytime. Jet watches in silent amusement, sure that Spike was a snake charmer in a past life.

“Ugh! Living with you heathens is unbearable! Here, take your stupid condoms back, then, jerk! I'll just use pills like a normal person!” she yells, and flings the condoms back at Spike before she takes off. Jet notices that there's only half as many there as she took, and from Spike’s frown, he's noticed too. 

“Can't we get rid of her yet?” Spike whines, but there's no heat to it. There almost never is.

“Sure, soon as we come up with a good way to keep her away,” Jet says, and Spike snorts as he tucks a condom into the heel of his shoe, then shoves the rest back into the box.

“Hey,” Jet finds himself saying as he catches Spike’s arm. Spike looks at him, a little disarmed but trusting. It's strange, the way they trust each other implicitly one minute but keep things carefully guarded the next. They've been closer lately, though, and Jet has to say he's relieved.

“If you ever get in trouble, you know I'm there for you, right? No matter what kind of trouble it is,” he says, and Spike laughs. The pleasure of the sound makes him relax.

“Jet, my man, you're the first one I call,” he says, “every time.”

There's a moment of tension between them, both of them obviously thinking of the times that Spike hasn't trusted him enough to call, and then the times that he has.

“Alright,” Jet says, and claps him roughly on the shoulder. Spike grins at him, letting the force of it sway him around a little.

“Oh, hey, I've got lube in there, too,” Spike says, and digs in the grocery bag until he finds a little bottle. He tucks it into his condom box, and Jet has to laugh.

“Spike, are you planning on getting laid?” he asks, and Spike does nothing but give him a cool smirk for a second too long and walk away.

Jet’s starting to think he's missing something here.

-

Spike is giving the girl gently flirting with him some of the dirtiest looks Jet has ever seen, and he’s starting to think that he gets the picture.

“Sweetheart, any other day and I'd be giving you a beard ride to the moon and back,” Jet tells her lowly, and she turns pink as a rose. She isn't shy about the pleasure of the idea, though, and that's part of the reason he likes her. 

“But see, I'm pretty sure my boy would rip me apart if I stepped out on him tonight,” he says, and indicates Spike to her with his eyes. Spike is at the bar, the lean shape of him a threat, his eyes sharp on Jet over his whiskey glass and knuckles.

“I see,” the girl says, though by her face, she's not put off by Spike's possessiveness, “sure he wouldn't be willing to share?”

Jet laughs, louder than he means to, and he can see Spike tightening up, jealous as a cat.

“Thanks but no thanks, doll,” he says, and gives her a parting kiss on the cheek before he makes his way back to the bar, squeezing quite close to Spike due to all the bodies. Not that he minds, at all. With each breath in he's surer and surer that he’s right. The way Spike relaxes when he makes it clear that he's not leaving again and the way he seems suddenly too shy to meet his eyes all but confirms it.

“She turn you down?” he asks, and Jet shrugs.

“Nah. I’ve got better prospects tonight,” he says, and Spike looks at him, long and steady, before he sighs.

“This might be a bad idea,” he says, but he doesn't sound sure.

“Might be,” Jet concedes, “or might not be.”

Spike just keeps clicking his ice around his glass, brow furrowed. Hopelessly uncertain, he seems, and quickly losing his nerve in the face of Jet’s calm acceptance.

“You shouldn't just give me what I want,” he says finally, and downs his whiskey. Jet chuckles, letting his weight lean closer to Spike, letting his hand brush Spike’s thigh.

“You ever think about what I want?” he asks, and Spike gives a dark laugh.

“All the time,” he says, and gestures to the girl still watching them. Jet just shakes his head.

“She would have been nice for the night,” he says, “but you know I'm not looking for just one night, Spike. I know you're not, either. Not anymore.”

“Fuck buddies don't usually tend to stay together for long, Jet,” Spike says. He’s starting to get snappish with nerves, and he pets his hand down Spike's thin back, to give him an enticement and a comfort in one motion.

“Bounty hunters don't tend to stay together long, either,” he points out, and Spike practically squirms. “Don't tell me you haven't thought about it. We make a good team in a lot of ways, Spike. I can't see how this would be different.”

“Yeah, well, I can,” he snaps, signalling the barman for another glass. He downs it all immediately, then turns to Jet with a mean look in his mismatched eyes. 

“Guys treat me different when they've seen how I am during sex,” he says blatantly, the most straightforward Jet has ever seen him, “and if that happened with you, I’m pretty sure I'd have to kill you.”

He signals for another whiskey with a sour frown, but Jet takes it from him and downs it.

“We’re leaving,” he says, close to Jet’s ear, “and I’m going to prove to you that you don't have to be afraid of that. Not with me, Spike.”

Spike’s mean, leveling glare lasts to the front door, where the cool air seems to blow the saltiness right out of him.

“You alright to fly back?” He asks Spike, and he stretches a little. Jet tries not to actively ogle him in the street. And fails. A lot.

“Yeah, fine. You?”

“I’ll get there,” he says, though he's regretting taking Spike's glass right about now.

“Alright,” Spike says, and they watch each other for a minute. They could let this die here, or when they reach the Bebop, or in the next thousand little moments they have. Jet’s done it more than once in a relationship, but he’s determined not to let that happen this time.

They turn away from each other. Jet feels a little like he’s fighting the Hammerhead all the way back, but with just a little bit of kerfuffling in the hangar he manages to get in alright. In record time, too, though Spike’s sliding the Swordfish in right behind him.

He hops out of the cockpit, and Spike’s eyes are full of wariness when he cocks his head towards his room. He follows, though, and after he’s kicked Ein out of the room and the door has slid shut behind them, he’s trapped with Spike’s nerves in the semi-darkness.

He reaches forward to skin Spike out of his jacket, and Spike lets him easily enough, but he watches the jacket hit a chair like he wants it back.

“Spike,” he says, stepping into the man’s space, close enough that neither of them can pretend that they’re not looking at each other, “if you're not okay, say the word. We don't have to.” Spike groans, scrubbing a hand at his jaw, and then grabs at Jet’s shirt like he's finally going to let himself give in.

“How do you manage to be so nice and such an asshole at the same time?” Spike asks, pressing his head against Jet’s, almost hard enough to be a headbutt. Jet grins.

“Special skill. Learned it in ISSP,” he says, and Spike chuckles and then he's biting his way into Jet’s mouth. Compared to the whiskey and cigarette taste in his own mouth, Spike tastes like nearly nothing. But he kisses like he’s trying to crawl into Jet’s brain and kiss him there. It drives Jet nuts, and he grabs at his hair and tugs until he whines and relents, lets Jet make it kinder and smoother. Not gentler, though, especially when he walks Spike back to the wall and practically slams him into it. The kiss breaks on Spike’s gasp, and he blinks at Jet for a second, clearly surprised.

“Good look on you, Spike,” he says, and the red swelling in his mouth really is.

He presses back in, smothering all of Spike’s long muscles between the wall behind and Jet’s weight in front. He sucks on Spike's mouth until he has to pull away for breath, bites at his throat until he groans, and tugs at his rumpled shirt until he can get his hands on bare skin underneath. Spike hits his head trying to cant into the touch and doesn't seem to care at all, only lunges in trying to touch Jet back like it's a race.

“Easy, Spike, easy,” he breathes, and Spike honest-to-God shudders as he scrapes his fingers in under the waistband of his pants.

“Jeez, Jet, just-” he pants, and fumbles over his own zipper twice before he can get his pants undone. He’s shucking Jet of his shirt before he can react to that, and then working his big, broad hand into Jet’s pants and getting a hold on his dick.

“Shit,” Jet breathes on a sigh, and Spike laughs, low and smooth in his chest so that Jet can feel it where they’re pressed together. The smudge of a dark hickey on his long throat is impossibly important, and Jet redoubles his efforts on it as Spike works his hand over him, slow and strong and teasing.

“Shit,” Jet says again as he finally gets his hands to free Spike’s shirt from his trousers and get a hand down the back. The small of his back is impossibly smooth and soft, and curves delightfully down to his tight hips and skinny ass. It’s a nice little handful, and Spike jerks against him, his groan this time wild when Jet squeezes. He hits his head again, and Jet has to dislodge his hand from his dick or else he might shoot off like an embarrassing teenager. He hasn't felt this lit up or keyed in to a person since Elisa, but that was gentle and protective where this is something else. Something stronger and keen enough to nearly hurt.

He slides down to his knees faster than he ought to, and Spike makes another surprised noise when he skins his pants down. His big, dumb shoes are in the way, and Jet only bothers to yank him out of one so he can get out of the trap of his pants before he’s pushing his thighs wide and diving in tongue-first.

He knows most guys don't like it, but Jet’s always loved giving head. Spike surprises him, in that his clit is nearly as big as a cock, swollen and dark with blood in the dimness. There’s no hair there, either, though he already knew that. When he licks in, Spike is already wet enough to taste the sharpness of, and he latches onto Jet’s shoulder with a grip that would hurt if he weren't grabbing the metal one.

He suckles the swollen clit into his mouth, teasing the tip with his tongue, and Spike hooks a long leg over his shoulder and tugs him in closer by the back of his head. His hand is sweaty, and his sighs are coming faster, harsher with each swipe of his tongue. 

He works his lips up and down the hard little length of it, and Spike trembles suddenly, his hips pulsing forward. Jet can take the hint, and bobs in and out, licking where he can and sucking so that it’s nearly violent. Spike isn't loud, but the growl working out of him with each slide is thrumming through Jet’s head and leaving his mouth tingling.

He slides all the way down and stays there, swallowing hard as he tortures the tip with the flat of his tongue. Spike heaves with a wet gasp, trembling harder. Jet watches his abs work as his orgasm spirals high and tight before it releases with a curse, and he practically turns to jelly, nearly falling over Jet while he catches his breath. Jet laughs boozily, head spinning from the thirty or so seconds without oxygen, and Spike lowers his leg with a weak laugh.

“You’ve got come in your beard,” Spike snorts, and tugs at his arm to try and get him up. Jet takes his time getting up, and shoves Spike in the general direction of the bed.

Spike finishes getting himself undressed on top of Jet’s sheets, and Jet lets his laziness infect him too as he toes out of his boots and squirms out of his worksuit.

By the time he’s naked and flops on the bed, Spike’s got a cigarette lit and looks like he might drift off right there even as his hand wraps around Jet’s dick again and starts playing him like a fiddle.

Jet lets himself relax into Spike’s sure grip, the easy way he teases until he’s figured out the way he likes it, and then starts working him up, layering sensations on top of each other. He’s making soft, pleased rumbles in his throat when Spike suddenly sets aside his cigarette and bites his chest. Just like that, the intensity ratchets right back up, and Spike straddles his thighs while he bites him all over. Each press of teeth goes right to his cock, and he only has time to grab Spike’s wrist before he’s coming hard. He catches the wicked look on Spike’s face, darkly pleased and possessive again. It only redoubles the sensation, and he has to shut his eyes and bat Spike’s hand away before it edges over into painful.

After he’s caught his breath, he opens his eyes again to see Spike considering him from where he’s sprawled on top of him, smoking yet again. Jet reaches up to cradle his cheek, guiding him to shotgun the smoke. He messes it up by snorting, and Jet coughs right in his face.

“You hate Marlboro,” he laughs, and Jet frowns at him.

“Nah. Tastes like you.”

Spike goes still. The smoke burns down to a butt between his fingers, and he doesn't seem to notice as he draws patterns on Jet’s chest.

“Can I get you off again,” he asks, “or would that be weird?” 

The question does the trick of breaking Spike’s concentration, and he gapes at Jet, surprised beyond words.

“You want to?” he asks, and Jet raises an eyebrow, painting broad strokes down his back with his metal hand to watch the way he relaxes at the strange feeling.

“Yeah? Hasn't anybody ever…?” He starts to ask, but Spike pats his cheek with a mystified smile.

“Not really.”

It’s Jet’s turn to give him a weird look, and he shrugs.

“No one usually puts up with me longer than mutual orgasms,” he says, and Jet only sighs out, “Cryin’ shame,” before he pushes Spike over onto his back and sits up over him.

“Fingers okay?” he asks, and Spike makes a strange, squeamish face. Jet holds up both hands, and Spike relaxes when he’s allowed to pick the flesh hand and steer it between his legs. Jet doesn't have any feelings about it- he usually prefers that hand, himself, and doesn't blame Spike for erring towards the familiar.

“Yeah. It's, uh, been a while, though,” he says, and Jet nods in understanding. He strokes his fingers through the slickness, and Spike stirs under him, flexing into the finger he touches to his hole.

It feels very tight, and he pets his other hand over everything he can reach to try and lessen the tension in Spike’s muscles. He eventually loosens up a bit, and Jet bears in.

He can barely get his fingertip inside, and Spike looks like he's concentrating way too hard to enjoy himself.

“Hey,” he says, smacking Spike’s knee. He jumps, and Jet goes back to rubbing around the edges of his hole, teasing with slick brushes over where Spike seems to want it.

He sneaks his metal hand down Spike’s thigh until he can run his thumb over his clit, and Spike jumps again, though this is accompanied by a startled grunt and a loosening in his expression.

He rolls Spike’s clit under his thumb while his index finger probes at his hole, and once he has Spike nice and relaxed, he pushes inside again. It's still criminally tight, but he can rock his finger in and out slowly, easing him into taking it knuckle by knuckle. Spike melts into it suddenly with a stressed and helpless noise. Jet ignores it, sliding in and out steadily, his thumb still working over his clit.

“Jet,” Spike pants quietly, and he looks up to see Spike lever himself onto his elbow, his eyelids fluttering as he pants.

“Feel good?” he asks, and Spike’s head falls back, the hickey on his throat stark.

“Mmm,” he manages, then, “usually hurt, before, but-” he stops talking as he makes that wounded noise again, back bowing so that he shoves down onto Jet’s hand. He shudders and starts working his hips around, like he’s trying to guide Jet to the right spot as he goes even looser around his finger. He lets his strokes get a little harder, a little bit deeper, and Spike actually falls flat again, a moan popping out of him like he’s surprised that this can feel good.

Jet takes pity on him and crooks his finger, rocking in hard, and Spike cries out in shock as he’s suddenly coming hard enough that Jet has to wait until he’s coming down to remove his finger.

It takes him a little longer to catch his breath this time. He looks truly debauched now, shaky and blinking blearily up at Jet with come slicked on the inside of his thighs. Jet lights his own cigarette and drinks down the glass of water on his bedside table. After a second, Spike rolls over to pluck up a dirty towel off the floor and wipe himself down.

“Where the hell did you even come from?” he groans into the sheets, and Jet pets his back some more. He likes the wide expanse of Spike’s shoulders, and he lets out a noise like a dog when Jet gets a hand in his hair, so he plays with it for a while, head swimming pleasantly.

Finally Spike peeks suspiciously up at him. Jet smiles at him. The suspicion tightens.

“You want beef and peppers? I'm starving all of a sudden,” he says, and it seems to be the right thing to say, because Spike’s face relaxes into worn out bliss. 

“I'm always up for whatever you make,” he says, quiet in a way he almost never is, and Jet leans down to kiss his shoulder.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” Spike says, although his hushed tone is starting to scare Jet.

“You sure? You sound spooked,” he says, and Spike only lays a hand on his thigh.

“Go make food, idiot,” he says, and pushes at Jet. He gets up and finds some boxers before he trudges into the kitchen.

When he’s done, Spike’s locked in his own room and if it weren't for the wrinkles in sheets and the smell of Marlboros lingering, you’d never have known he was there at all.

-

Spike avoids looking at him or talking directly to him for three days. Three. Days. Even Ed is noticing that something's off between them. Hell, even Ein looks between them like he’s confused.

He could understand if Spike needed space, but he acts like Jet’s presence hurts him, and he knows that he didn't do anything. Right?

“Jeez,” Faye says, when he’s left the couch for the third time that day after Jet’s come in the room, “What crawled up his ass? Did you two have a fight or something?”

She's already submerged back into her magazine before he can answer, so he doesn't bother. Instead he goes to the hangar, where Spike is going over his guns at a workbench. Usually, he just cleans them, but now he’s got them fully stripped and is cleaning and polishing each piece with the sort of concentration that bars everything else. 

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks, and Spike gives him a cold, impersonal look that has him pissed in the space of seconds.

“Cleaning my guns,” he says sarcastically, and Jet slaps the things out of his hands and has to resist punching him, too.

“No, this, what are you doing?” he snaps, and Spike just looks at him, distant as a stranger. It all clicks together cruelly after a moment, and he has to take a deep breath so that he doesn't explode.

“You think I'm going to just disappear, huh? That I'll cut loose like Julia and-”

“You don't know what you're talking about,” Spike cuts in, pressing his hands hard to the table. “Maybe it won't be for a while, or you might not have a choice, but-”

“You’re a coward,” Jet spits, and Spike’s whole body goes tight with quiet rage, but he keeps going, “You know, Alisa said she left because she felt like I was trying to make all of her decisions for her-”

“Yeah, you're pretty good at that,” Spike rips, but Jet ignores the dig.

“You're doing the exact same thing to me, to both of us! You think you know so well but you won't even give it a chance-”

“I can't afford to take that chance and fail, again, alright?” Spike yells, and for a second Jet doesn't know if they're gonna hit each other or if Spike will, he doesn't know, cry or something. Instead, though, he just picks up the pieces of his gun and goes back to cleaning them, fury coiled tight in his spine.

“Spike,” he says, “even if you lost me, you wouldn't break.”

“You don't know that,” Spike says, and there's a click as he starts reassembling the gun.

“No, listen. You’d have Faye,” he says, and Spike snorts, but Jet steps forward and grips his elbow and he goes still, “and Edward and Ein and the Bebop and all of these weird people that you know everywhere. No one is going to let you be all alone, Spike. You don't have to do this alone.”

Spike doesn't say anything, but he doesn't push Jet away, and he doesn’t ignore it. He's thinking, even when he goes back to the gun.

“Just, think about how much being distant from me means to you,” he says, “and if you want me to drop it, I will.”

Spike visibly struggles for a moment, but the anger leaves him in a rush.

“You deserve better,” he says, and Jet laughs.

“No, I really don't, Spike. You think I'm not scared of losing you? You get shot to hell at least twice a year. You run off every time you get a little word on Vicious and you always come back fucked up. That's the kind of shit that keeps me up at night, but I'd probably never sleep again if you just told me to forget it because I don't need your baggage.”

Spike shifted uneasily. Slowly, he said, “I'll, I'll think about it, Jet.

That's all Jet can ask for. He nods, and leaves.

-

Two days later, he hands Spike a plate of spaghetti and he leans over his shoulder to plant a kiss on his cheek. Faye chokes on her food, and Edward howls with laughter at the look on her face.

When he looks at Spike, he's smiling, and he doesn't look sure, but he doesn't look away, either.

It's a start.


End file.
